Dizraeli

“It’s the next square down from the giant cow. Yeah! See you in a sec. Brilliant”. My Thespian Friend snaps his phone shut triumphantly, and starts rolling himself a cigarette. “Brett’s coming. He’s brilliant. It’s great you’re going to meet him he runs this amazing theatre, you’ll…”. His attention is caught by a waitress with long lashes who’s swooping past nose first, like a circus seal. Only for a second, though- this isn’t the time to be distracted by waitresses: under these plastic lanterns the String-Pullers of the theatre world are gathering, and my Thespian Friend is determined to ingratiate himself with as many of them as possible. He’s not doing badly. Brett appears with a peroxide sweep of ridiculous hair, and my friend leaps up to embrace him. I’m introduced, briefly, but within a few seconds they’re headlong into The Chat, and I can sit back and watch the Fringe beginning.

I love and hate this festival: I love it for the mad, boiling energy of so many passionate people coming to throw their thoughts out into the world, in so many different ways. I hate it for what it can force those people to become: coffee-crazed dung-flies that circle the orange lanyards at Promoters’ Breakfasts; tear-streaked wrecks with limp copies of The Scotsman in their laps, destroyed by a cruel review. There’s injustice here in spades. On Sunday, I met a director who’s paying £300 a night to stay in the suite of a five-star hotel. Last night, in a bar in town, I met the young techie from that director’s show. He’s being paid nothing at all. But he was still happy, he said, to be here, in the midst of all this. He wouldn’t be missing it for the world.

Back at the Hullabaloo (sponsored by Bulmers), Brett’s at the bar, and my Thespian Friend is vibrating with excitement, giggling between sips of his cider. “I can’t believe how many amazing people there are here”, he manages, before swivelling in his chair to ogle another Director He Admires. If his head could turn a full circle, like an owl or an Action Man, it would be in permanent rotation. The seal-girl sleeks past again, and I get a mischievous urge to toss plastic hoops around her head. I don’t, though. I smile at the returning Brett. “Brett!” I say, “tell me about this theatre you run.”

Tags: Edinburgh fringe